


Right Kind of Wrong

by MrsJohnReese



Category: Justified
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27396889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsJohnReese/pseuds/MrsJohnReese
Summary: Augusta 'Gus' Crowder was no stranger to the family business, despite the fact that she was never allowed in on the finer aspects of its day to day operations. But after the murder of her brother, she will find that she is forced to get more involved than she ever has before, just as the man she never thought she'd see again returns to stir up trouble with her head, and her heart.
Relationships: Ava Crowder/Boyd Crowder, Raylan Givens/Original Female Character
Kudos: 4





	1. Momentum

"Gus! Hurry the hell up, woman, it's time to go!"

"Calm down, I'm comin'!" I exclaim, dragging my fingers through my hair in one last-ditch attempt at getting it to cooperate, and turning on a heel to head towards the door after turning off the light that rests beside my bed. Making my way down the stairs to the foyer, I am greeted by the sight of my brother leaning against the wall, arms crossed against his chest as though I've made him wait for years, rather than a measly fifteen minutes. But before I can make any sort of comment on the matter, he seems to decide upon beating me to the punch, one arm slinging itself around my shoulders to pull me against his side before we head out the front door.

"Yeah, yeah, I wasn't waitin' that long," He gripes, rolling his eyes before shoving me away so that I can lock the door behind us, "Can it, sis, it's always the same story every damn time."

"You ever think maybe it's the same story every time, 'cause it's true?"

"No."

"Well maybe you should," I retort, stowing my keys in the back pocket of my jeans after making sure the door is securely locked, and turning to face my brother with one brow quirked in silent inquiry once I see the look on his face, "What?"

"Nothin'. Just wonderin' why the hell Boyd tolerates you, is all."

"Funny you should mention that. Here I am wonderin' why the hell I tolerate you."

"Seems to me you don't have much of a choice in the matter."

"That's a matter of perspective, Bowman—"

"It's the only one that matters," My brother insists, once again securing his arm around my shoulders, despite the fact that I am entirely incapable of resisting the flinch that gives evidence to my muscles tensing in response, "Family first. Means you're stuck with me."

"Hurray."

"Wouldn't hurt you to sound a little more enthusiastic, sis."

"Yeah, but that wouldn't be nearly as much fun," I deadpan, shrugging away from my brother's hold, and picking my way over the gravel driveway with as much care as I can to avoid the heels of my boots getting snagged and causing me to fall, "Any chance you're gonna tell me why on earth you're draggin' me to this thing, to begin with?"

"You got a problem spendin' time with your brother, and sister-in-law?"

"No, Bowman, I don't. What I have a problem with is you refusing to accept the fact that I might've already had plans for the evening."

"And you gettin' into this truck with me just proves I was right. They weren't so important that you couldn't change 'em."

"Or you strong-armed me, and I couldn't do anything about it—" I grumble, doing my best to keep my words inaudible while my brother settles himself in the driver's seat of his truck, while I clamber into the passenger seat beside him not long after. I know poking the proverbial angry bear is not a smart decision just about as well as I know my own name. But something in the self-assured way Bowman is grinning at me as though he takes my feigned silence as an easy victory has me all too easily abandoning what passes for good sense, my brown eyes meeting his own as I snap the seatbelt into place around my torso and say the words that may or may not seal my fate for the evening to come.

"You gonna just sit here gloatin', or are we gonna drive to your place for dinner?"

For a moment, Bowman looks like he wants to hit me, his jaw tensing like it always does when he's pissed, while a muscle starts to twitch in his cheek, and his fingers tighten on the steering wheel hard enough to cause the leather to give a faint squeak of protest. Regardless of the bravado inherent in my demand, such as it was, I can already feel the instinctive need to shrink back in the passenger seat prickling through my muscles, my teeth biting at my lower lip as I do what I can to force myself to remain in place. I cannot really explain it—my stubborn need to appear as though my brother does not scare me half to death the majority of the time that I find myself alone in his company. But whether or not I will ever obtain an answer to that particular conundrum, I find that the attempt is unneeded, at least for the moment, my body relaxing just a bit as I realize Bowman has opted for turning his attention toward the task of jamming his keys in the ignition, his jaw giving one final twitch before he throws himself back in the driver's seat and jams one foot down on the accelerator to head back to his own home.

"Reckon you're lucky our brother likes ya so much, Gus," He begins, reaching towards the carton of cigarettes that rest in one of the cupholders between the seats, and fishing one out so he can stick it between his teeth, before snagging the lighter in the next fluid motion despite the fact that my nose has wrinkled preemptively at the prospect of all that smoke clogging up the interior of the cabin of his truck, "No other man from 'round here'd be likely to put up with that mouth you got on you, that's for sure."

"You think so?"

"I know so. 'N fact, Boyd's about the only reason I don't try harder to teach you the proper way a woman should be."

"Guess I should count my blessings then, huh?" I propose, reaching over to crack the passenger side window before Bowman can fill up the cabin with his damned cigarette smoke and choke me to death in the process, "Seeing as big brother is the only thing standin' between me and being forced to be a proper lady."

"Guess you should," Bowman confirms, plucking the cigarette from between his lips, and pointing it at me in what I can only interpret as a gesture of warning before going on, "No matter how smart you think you are, sis, he ain't gonna be here all the time to let ya have your way 'bout things."

"That a threat?" I inquire, turning my eyes back to my brother, and doing my best to keep my expression as neutral as I can while I wait for his reply. I know he's right, of course. That Boyd won't always be there to have my back as far as our temperamental alcoholic of a brother is concerned. But in spite of that awareness, I cannot help but come to the conclusion that I never will be intelligent enough to just let him have his way, my seemingly instinctive need to give him hell for a lifetime of piss poor treatment, not only of my own person, but his wife and my best friend, Ava, as well winning out over logic every single time, regardless of the threat that is so apparent in his ensuing reply.

"Nah, Gus, it's a promise. See, I'll be damned if I let my baby sister give our family a bad name, no matter what anybody else has to say about it…"

I do not say it out loud, but just that remark alone has me curling the fingers of my right hand into a fist, the pressure of my nails digging into the skin of my palm serving as the only thing preventing me from opening my mouth, and making everything worse.

Little did I know that 'worse' was just around the corner…

…


	2. Witness Statement

The events of the evening seem to blur in my mind as I sit in the chair that one of the officers has directed me to, my hands curled around a Styrofoam of coffee that has long since gone cold. I keep staring blankly at the wall across from where I sit, as though it, and it alone holds the answers to all the questions I know are going to be coming my way. My ears are still ringing with the shot that killed my brother, and every time I close my eyes, I can still see his blood seeping into the carpet by the dining room table. But no matter how often I tell myself I should be grieving his loss, I cannot help but feel that Ava's actions were entirely within reason given how I knew Bowman had been treating her almost from the moment they said 'I do'.

Truthfully, I know that he might've done the same to me, but for the fact that he was smart enough to know that Boyd would've gone after him if he did. And although I cannot find it within myself to be ungrateful for our oldest brother's often overdone protectiveness where I am concerned, some small part of me almost wishes he wasn't, as insane as that sounds.

Perhaps if Bowman had actually made good on his multiple insinuations that he'd love nothing more than to teach me how to be a proper woman, and do what I was told, I wouldn't be sitting here feeling just a bit guilty that I had watched him get murdered, and not done a damn thing to stop it.

A wince passes over my face as the sudden slam of a nearby door reminds me all too well of the blast of Ava's shotgun echoing through her dining room, my fingers tightening around the Styrofoam cup of coffee in my hands so quickly that a small fissure forms at the rim. In order to avoid a spill, I place it away from me on the desk in front of where I sit, only to realize that without its weight against my palms, I now have nothing to do with my hands. In response, my fingertips drum against the metal surface for just a moment, my eyes suddenly riveted upon the liquid in the cup just a few inches away as it moves minutely with each strike of my fingers upon the desk. But before I can find myself too distracted by just such a thing, the sudden presence of a hand upon my shoulder has me jolting back to the present, my entire body going rigid until the hand removes itself, and the soft sound of footfalls signify the individual making their way around my chair to take a seat opposite me at the desk.

"Sorry for the wait," The man begins, something in the way he is looking at me giving me the idea that he is not nearly as apologetic as he would be to someone with a different last name, "I'm just gonna ask you a few questions about what you saw, and then you're free to go."

"And Ava?" I inquire, protective instinct overriding any need I have to be cautious, at least for the moment as I shift in my chair, and cross one leg over the other at the knees before leaning against the back of the chair as though I really am as unflappable as my posture might infer, "What happens with her?"

"I don't think that's what really matters, right now."

"It matters to me."

"And why is that?" The man asks, clearly either not aware of the fact that if Ava goes to prison, it'll be about as good as a death sentence, or just deciding that he doesn't really care. I'm not supposed to know, but with my daddy's connections in prison, it wouldn't be long before Ava found herself on the losing end of some skirmish or another, as payback for what she'd done to Bowman. Separate prison or no, there'd always been some way for the truly determined and well-connected criminals to contact one another to take care of their business. And I'd be damned if I knowingly allowed my best friend to walk into that sort of situation blind, no matter what she'd done to deserve it.

"Because I think you and I both know what she did wasn't as cold blooded as it looks on the surface."

"She killed your brother, Miss Crowder."

"Yes, she did."

"That doesn't bother you?"

"Not as much as it should," I confess, aware of the almost automatic stiffening in the officer's expression, as though he is half-tempted to act as judge, jury and executioner over my own involvement in tonight's dismal affair as soon as he realizes the implication behind my words, "You happen to notice the bruises she's got on her skin when you were talkin' to her, or no?"

"Is this the part where you tell me those bruises are from Bowman?"

"Well they aren't from her own clumsiness."

"That's not exactly a direct answer, you know—" The officer informs, squirming a bit in his seat until he makes himself suitably comfortable, and then fixing me with a skeptically raised brow before going on, "I'm going to need you to be a bit more forthcoming about exactly what went down tonight. For your own benefit, you understand."

"Something tells me it's more for your benefit than mine," I retort, my foot bobbing idly as I avert my eyes towards my lap as though the stray thread on one pant leg is the most fascinating thing in the world, "But shoot."

"Pardon?"

"Hit me with your first question. I'm ready when you are."

The officer does not seem to appreciate my instruction in how best to do his job, though he gives no evidence to that fact, save for the slight twitching of a muscle in his jaw as he grinds his teeth together for just a moment as though trying to decide where to begin. I am almost tempted to make a comment on that very fact, despite the realization that such a thing would hardly be wise, considering the circumstances. But before I get the chance, the man is leaning forward until his elbows plunk down on the surface of the desk between us, his eyes regarding me for a moment in introspective silence before he clears his throat and officially begins the interrogation.

"Tell me about how the evening began," He dictated, one hand straying toward the recording device that rested near a cup that housed several pencils and pens that looked as though they had seen better days so that he could power it on, before prodding her to begin answering with his next words, "How did you end up at Bowman's home?"

"He invited me for dinner. Might've been tryin' to make up to Ava for the last beating he gave her, for all I know."

"And he picked you up at your home? Drove you there, himself."

"Unless you somehow managed to find my car there—"

"Less of the smart-talk, Miss Crowder. You want to give me sufficient reason to believe your sister-in-law had motive in takin' down your brother, then you need to take this seriously."

"Believe me, I am taking this seriously," I retort, lifting a brow in turn, and regarding the man seated across from me with as derisive a glance as I can manage, before shrugging one shoulder and fiddling with a loose chip of nail polish while simultaneously beginning to elaborate upon his previous inquiry, "Yes. Bowman drove me there. Ava was cookin' dinner."

"What happened next?"

"I helped her set the table—we had a few glasses of wine—Bowman griped about why it was takin' so long—"

"Was that why she shot him?"

"No. And I thought I was tellin' this story."

"You are," The officer confirms, his expression unreadable in spite of the acerbic nature of my remark, his fingers steepled together as he leans forward just a fraction of an inch as though he is actually thinking the gesture might inspire camaraderie, "Carry on."

"Dinner was ready, and we all sat down to eat. Ava hadn't told me anything about it, but I could see she had a fresh bruise on her wrist, and far more concealer than she normally uses on her face beneath her right eye."

"So, he'd beaten her recently?"

"As far as I could tell, yes. Must've happened since the time I saw her before that."

"Which was when, Miss Crowder?"

"Bout two days prior."

"And did you question Ava or your brother about the bruises?"

"No," I scoff, unable to quell the snort of amusement that escapes, no matter how I know it would be in my best interests to do exactly that, "I knew better than to do that with my brother around."

"Did you have reason to believe he would hurt you, if you did?"

"You gonna accuse me of plannin' to murder him with Ava if I say yes?"

"I never said that, Miss Crowder," The officer protests, feigning surprise that I would ever dream of thinking he'd come to such a conclusion in the first place, though beneath that part of his expression, a part of me registers that if he could somehow pin my brother's death on me as well as Ava, it would absolutely make his day, "Did you have reason to believe your brother would hurt you if you said anything about his wife's bruises?"

"Only an idiot wouldn't believe that," I state, aware of the need to be careful in exactly how much I ought to reveal regarding Bowman's tendency for drunken violence, so that absolutely none of it can implicate Boyd, my daddy, or even me, and yet still choosing to opt for some semblance of honesty in my replies, at least for the time being, to stand a better chance of helping Ava out of her current predicament, "But I assume you're not really interested in that side of things right now."

"If it has anything to do with what went down, I am."

"It doesn't."

"You sure about that?"

"One hundred percent."

"Then tell me more about dinner," The officer says, his brow furrowing as though the transition back to the timeline of my evening is as jarring as running over a pothole at high speed, "How did enjoying a family meal lead to Ava Crowder pullin' a shotgun on her husband?"

"Bowman was on a tear about somethin' I was honestly tryin' to ignore. He was drinkin' faster than usual, and then hollerin' about Ava not getting him a refill fast enough."

"Is that when she grabbed the gun? When she was goin' to get him that refill?"

"It was," I confirm, my heart stuttering within my chest at the memory of lookin' up to the doorway when Ava returned, only to find that she was leveling the huntin' rifle straight at my brother's chest, "She came back in the room with a rifle instead of his whiskey glass. Reckon you know the rest that happened after that."

"So, she shot him over his wantin' another drink?"

"No. She shot him because he was an abusive asshole, and she'd had enough."

"Did you ever witness any of this abuse?" My interrogator demands, skepticism heavy in his tone as he watches my expression intently, as though hoping that in so doing he will find reason to believe I am pulling his leg, "Seems to me, your sister in law could tell you anything she wanted about why she's covered in bruises, just to get you to see her as the victim."

"I walked into the house one day to find her sittin' in a pool of her own blood, clutchin' her stomach while Bowman stood over her with a baseball bat. That seem like someone who's just playin' the victim to you?"

"Not exactly—"

"Because she lost a baby that day," I press, my mood suddenly antagonistic, despite the small voice of wisdom that niggles at the back of my mind, advising caution, "I went with her to the hospital. Helped her come up with the explanation that she fell down the stairs, and that's why she was bruised up so bad."

"Why didn't either of you come clean then? Why cover for a man that you clearly both have reason to hate?"

"Because we knew if we did, he'd kill both of us for makin' him look bad. Neither of us were ever willin' to take that risk."

"So, Ava shot him in the chest, instead. Getting' rid of your problem once and for all."

"That's one way of puttin' it, yeah."

"Did the two of you never consider the possibility that if you came forward, especially if you did it together, we might've been able to put him away?" The officer asks, his tone clearly indicating that he has begun to doubt my intelligence if I never thought of such a solution myself, "That does happen every now and again, you know."

"Not if your last name's Crowder."

"Your daddy is in prison. What the hell are you so afraid of? Boyd?"

"No. Boyd has nothing to do with this," I assure, hoping that my statement will convince the officer to drop any line of questioning having to do with my other brother sooner, rather than later, "I've never been afraid of him. Never will be, either."

"Is Ava afraid of him?"

"Why the hell does that matter?"

"I'm just wonderin' if she's gonna go off and take your other brother out, too."

"Ava wouldn't do that."

"No? How'd you figure?" My companion inquires, tilting his head to the side, and regarding me with narrowed eyes, as though he thinks that if he squints, he'll figure out my answer before I ever get the chance to say it, "She's already got one notch under her belt for killin' a member of your family—"

"She is not goin' after Boyd," I insist, folding my arms across my chest, and quirking my brow at the man sitting across from me as though daring him to persist in behaving otherwise, "Are we done, here?"

"I'm just gatherin' information—"

"And that gatherin' has started to stray from what happened 'tween Ava and Bowman, and into the ins and outs of my daily life. Last I checked, that wasn't what I came here to discuss."

The officer's expression darkens visibly in response to my interruption, though he still seems to realize that I am on the right track, his brow furrowing for just a moment before he scoots his chair back from the desk, and moves to stand. One hand reaches down towards the cup of pencils, his fingers curling around a small card that he stretches towards me in the same motion. And before I can make any attempt at protest, I settle instead for simply accepting the proffered card in silence, my eyes meeting his as I wait for him to give me official permission to depart.

"You're free to go, Miss Crowder," He begins, gesturing with one hand towards the card that I am now sticking in my back pocket almost without a second glance, before his gaze returns once again to its former careful examination of my features, "My number's on that card if you think of anything else."

In lieu of giving him a verbal reply, I settle instead for a curt nod of acknowledgement before I am standing, myself, and turning on a heel to head towards the exit without another word. Of course, I have no intention of actually leaving, at least until I have the chance to contact my family's lawyer so that Ava'll have someone to help if she hasn't already thought of it on her own. But before I even get the chance to allow someone to pick up the call, I see Ava waiting for me in person just outside the station doors.

How in the hell did she manage that?

"They let me go on parole," She tells me, obviously taking note of my incredulous expression as soon as I pass through the door, and choosing to give me an explanation before I can even ask, "Surprisin', right?"

"A bit," I acknowledge, coming to a stop beside her as she exhales a cloud of smoke from the cigarette clutched between the first two fingers of her right hand, "Guess you're goin' back home, then?"

"Yeah. Was wonderin' if you'd stay with me, though."

"You really think that's a good idea? Man I talked to seemed to be at least briefly entertainin' the idea we came up with this whole ordeal in advance."

"Course I think it's a good idea, Gus. You're all the family I got left," Ava states, her expression nothing short of imploring despite my obvious apprehension over her newfound plan, "I don't think either of us should be alone right now."

"That your way of askin' me to protect you if some of my daddy's guys come lookin' for you?" I question, knowing even before she answers that I will agree to stick by her side, no matter what sort of shaky situation it might put me in as a result. In truth, it almost seems as though Ava might be wiser than most of our acquaintances believe, as she clearly sees the sense behind having another Crowder in residence in case someone does come sniffing around, looking for retribution. And although a part of me seriously doubts my ability to hold sway over any of my daddy's men, I have to admit that it's worth a shot if it means keeping my best friend safe…

If nothing else, just like Ava, I know what to do with the business end of a gun, and that might just give us both the advantage we need if things go south that quickly—something that Ava seems to pick up on by just reading my expression as I look at her for a moment in silence, her lips quirking up at the corners as she stubs her cigarette out against a nearby pillar, and tosses it in the trash can to her right before she speaks.

"As if you'd ever just leave me hangin' out there, on my own."

Whether I wish I could refuse her out of a lingering instinct for self-preservation, or not, I know that Ava is right. I would never leave her hanging, no matter what personal cost I incur as a result. It's like that old saying that seems to crop up in every single movie that has as its central plot a great friendship, or an even greater love—cradle to grave—that is the crux of my friendship with the woman standing beside me, just as it always has been from the moment we first met.

I can only hope that the events Ava has just set in motion will not result in both of us going to our graves any sooner than originally planned…

…


	3. Aftermath

"You sure you don't want me to go with ya?" Ava asks, folding her arms across her chest, and cocking her hip to the side while leaning against the kitchen counter after depositing the gloves she'd been wearing to clean my brother's blood off the wall in the dining room in the trash, "I feel bad makin' ya do all my work for me."

"Safer that way," I reply, grabbing my purse, and my cell from the dining room table, and cautiously averting my gaze so that I am not forced to look at the remnants of Bowman's blood that still stains the carpet near where I stand, "And you call me if anyone shows up, unannounced."

"Yes ma'am."

"I'm gonna hold you to that, Ava—"

"I know," My friend says, a smile apparent in her tone as she pushes herself away from the counter, and moves forward to pull me into an embrace before I can pull away, "Thank you for this, Gus. You got no idea how much I appreciate it."

"Just make that fried chicken of yours and we'll call it even."

"Fair enough," Ava agrees, one last smile gracing her lips before she pulls away so that I can head towards the door, and down the steps of her front porch towards her truck. Realistically, I'm a bit more apprehensive about leaving her to her own devices than I let on in her presence, though I know that my decision to head out on my own was still the best, given the circumstances. If anyone were to come after her, they would likely have already come to the conclusion that she would have enlisted my aid not that long after Bowman's death. And as such, they would also be likely to search for her wherever I happened to be, never once suspecting that perhaps we would use that very supposition against them.

Hopping into the truck, and turning the key in the ignition, I pull away from Ava's house and head down the drive towards the dirt road beyond, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my lips as I realize the last minute swiping of her keys instead of my own was probably a better decision than I initially believed. If anyone was tailing us, they'd have been looking for her truck, possibly even assuming she might try to run. And if the familiar car that swings out onto the main road almost immediately after me is any indication, they might have just fallen for the bait, hook, line, and sinker…

With a suppressed grin, I continue driving down the road, one hand leaving its place upon the steering wheel so that I can turn on the radio. Though I know the gesture might just be futile, I begin to hum along absentmindedly to the tune that wafts out of the speakers, my eyes occasionally drifting to the rearview mirror to ascertain if the car following me is still in sight. Of course, I ought to have known that Johnny would've been the one that Boyd sent after Ava first, though even I have to admit he does a better job of attempting to look unobtrusive than someone like Dewey might have. But, in spite of the awareness that my cousin would not hurt me, any more than I suspect he would hurt Ava, if she were in fact in the car with me, I would be a fool to ignore the small shiver of apprehension that causes my muscles to tense as I turn the truck onto the road that will lead to the small grocery store, my teeth coming out to worry at my lower lip for a moment as I consider the reality of the situation I currently share with my best friend as carefully as I can.

I don't want to believe Boyd would harm her—I really don't, in spite of the fact that I know full well some form of retaliation would be required, if not by his hands, then by my daddy's instead, for Bowman's death. But no matter what I do to try and convince myself that I can somehow find a way to stand between my best friend and her likely fate, I come up entirely empty each and every time, and that fills me with far more dread than I think I have ever experienced before.

I know, somehow, that I may end up forced to choose between Ava and my family, just like I know that the entire ordeal will be made that much worse because of the very simple fact that Ava has been my family too for as long as I can remember.

Pulling into the parking lot of the grocery store in time with such a thought, I risk another glance at my rearview mirror to notice that Johnny's car is still carefully following at a safe distance behind me. Though part of me is tempted to just pretend I made a wrong turn, and head out of the parking lot once again, I force myself to select a spot, instead, knowing almost without looking that Johnny will do the same. And, before I can lose my nerve entirely, I grab the grocery list and my phone from the passenger seat, and exit the car, the sound of my cousin's voice reaching my ears almost as soon as I have shut the door behind me.

"Fancy meetin' you here, Gus—"

"Yeah. Fancy," I reply, exhaling in a rush as Johnny moves closer towards me, his eyes narrowing as he glances at the truck behind me for just a moment, and I cut him off before he can comment on the fact that I am alone, "She's not here, Johnny."

"Who's she?"

"Like you don't know."

"What if I don't?" Johnny persists, falling into step beside me as I head towards the entrance of the store, "A guy can't run into his cousin and be happy about it?"

"Not if that guy is actually tailing her to keep tabs on her movements."

"Lord, Gus, you're talkin' crazy—"

"Am I, though?" I inquire, cocking a brow and allowing Johnny to hold open the door so that I can sidle through first, while a beleaguered woman with shopping bags tethered to her arms makes her exit at the same time, "Doesn't quite seem like that to me."

"And you've always been perceptive. Just like Boyd."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean, Johnny?"

"It means just what it says. But this time you're wrong."

"I am."

"Yeah. I'm not here to get into it with you, Gus," He says, finally catching up to me as I grab a cart, and begin to head towards the fruit and produce section of the store, "He was—it was gonna be one of the other guys, but—"

"But what? You wanted the job for yourself?"

"Yes."

Surprised by the sudden admission, I find myself coming to a stop by the display of apples, my hand hovering idly over one of the better-looking selections, while I turn back to look at Johnny as though he has lost his mind. I do not know if I truly believe him, or not, though something in his expression seems to indicate that I should. But before I can come to any sort of conclusion on that matter for myself, I realize Johnny has moved towards me to reach for the apple almost in my hand, himself, my eyes widening a bit in surprise as I realize he is handing it to me as though I could not have obtained it for myself.

"What are you doing, Johnny?"

"Tryin' to keep you safe, Gus, what the hell do you think?"

"I don't know what to think," I reply, taking the apple, and turning around to reach for one of the little plastic bags that the store always sets out to hold such things in the same motion, "But I hardly need a baby-sitter. Haven't needed one, actually, since I was eight."

"Yeah—because your brother hardly ever left your side even after that, and you know it."

"What the hell difference does that make?"

"It makes all the difference in the world, kid," Johnny tells me, clearly not swayed by the fact that I have selected a few more apples to place in my plastic bag and have now decided to move towards the head lettuce, instead, "Boyd won't hurt you. That don't mean that the rest of his guys would have the same intent."

"Have you ever, just for one second, thought that maybe I can handle myself? Have you?" I retort, grabbing one of the heads of lettuce, and placing it in my cart beside the apples, before turning to face my cousin directly, one brow quirked in honest skepticism over the nature of his reply. If I were to be honest with myself, the whole thing was unbelievable—the fact that the majority of my family, save for Boyd himself, seemed insistent upon viewing me as some delicate little hothouse flower that would fall over at the first sign of difficult times ahead. But even with the aggravation inherent in such a feeling still prominent in my mind, I force myself to keep silent if for no other reason than to avoid making a scene in the middle of the grocery store, my teeth digging into my lower lip as I move around the remainder of the produce section with Johnny right by my side.

"I know you can handle yourself, darlin'. But that don't mean that ya have to."

"You aren't takin' no for an answer on this one, are you?"

"Are ya really that surprised that I'm not?"

"No. No, I don't suppose I am," I admit, risking another glance at Johnny, and exhaling a bit as the resignation that I have effectively earned myself a partner, at least for the duration of my shopping trip is concerned, fully hits home, "But if you're gonna glue yourself to my side, I think you could at least try to make yourself useful."

"Oh yeah? How in hell do ya want me to do that?"

"Go get some chicken from the meat counter. I'll meet ya over in the bread aisle after the fact."

"Yes, boss," Johnny quips, throwing me a mock salute, before turning and heading off in that direction, and leaving me alone, at least for the time-being. It would be foolish of me to pretend that I am not just a little bit unnerved at the prospect of Johnny using our temporary time apart to contact one of my brother's other 'followers', for lack of a better word, and send them after Ava. But in spite of the fact that a part of me would like nothing more than to use this opportunity to head back to my truck, and forget about the groceries if it means I have a chance at keeping my best friend safe, I know that doing so would likely only make our already tenuous situation that much worse.

Running will only make it seem even more certain that Ava might be preparing to do so herself, and if I know anything at all about my family and their associates, such as they are, it is that any attempt my friend might make at getting out of dodge would be as good as signing her death sentence with her own two hands.

Determined to do whatever I can to avoid that very outcome, I do what I can to remain focused on the task of selecting a few carrots, and red bell peppers to go along with Ava's chicken, my expression settling into what I can only hope is a neutral mask that will not draw any suspicion on either my part, or hers. Once again, the absolute terror that I will be forced to choose between Ava and my brother threatens to take hold, no matter what I attempt to do to avoid acknowledging it. And although I am well aware that allowing myself to be this distracted is in no way beneficial to my current situation, I cannot help but succumb, regardless, another sigh escaping as I bag some carrots and peppers, and place them in the cart before heading to the bread aisle to wait for Johnny as promised.

If nothing else, I know that I need to do what I can to keep him talking about anything and everything other than Ava, and her involvement in Bowman's death, if for no other reason than to distract myself, as well.

…

After going through the checkout line at the grocery store, and packing all the bags in the back of Ava's truck with Johnny's help, I find myself sidling back into the driver's seat in next to no time at all, my eyes drifting up to the rearview mirror to check my windblown hair, before my right hand moves to put the key in the ignition. The soft rumble of the truck came to life not long after, a faint sigh of relief escaping as I acknowledge the fact that I appear to have escaped my cousin's scrutiny. But of course as soon as that thought passes through my mind, I find myself nearly jumping out of my skin as the passenger door to the truck opens and shuts with a startling bang, my eyes flicking over to meet Johnny's as he fiddles with the seatbelt for just a moment before meeting my gaze head-on.

"Johnny, what the hell are you doin'?"

"Makin' sure you get to Boyd's," He supplies, his posture going slack as he settles back in the passenger seat of the truck as though he belongs there, despite my obviously incredulous expression that comes about as a result of his assertion.

"I need to get this food home, and in the refrigerator—"

"An' we got a refrigerator at the church, Gus. You know that."

"Boyd tell you to bring me back?" I demand, throwing the truck in drive, and pressing my foot down on the accelerator a bit harder than was truly necessary, so that the tires emit a faint squeal of protest against the pavement. In response, I can hear the soft sound of Johnny's laughter, the realization that he is aware of my aggravation, and honestly finds it to be amusing prompting me to tighten my grip on the steering wheel just a bit as I turn from the store's parking lot onto the main road. But before I can make any attempt at a retort for his benefit, Johnny beats me to the punch, his expression giving me every confirmation I could ever ask for despite the fact that his answer is as non-committal as I ought to have known it would be.

"What do you think?"

"I think this whole damn thing is ridiculous."

"Yet you're goin' along with it anyway," Johnny says, tilting his head to the side as though waiting for me to confirm what he already knows to be true, "Why is that, d'ya think?"

"Maybe because you've given me no choice—"

"And maybe because deep down we both know he just needs to see that you're alive."

"Why the hell wouldn't I be alive, Johnny?" I exclaim, shaking my head in abject incredulity while simultaneously steering the truck toward the back road that will lead to my brother's little hideout with as little jarring on the road as I can manage, "He can't possibly think Ava would've—"

"Would've shot you too?"

"That's a shit idea and you know it."

"Is it though? She shot Bowman without a second thought, from what I hear."

"Oh? And, was the person that told ya that hidin' behind the curtains when it all went down?"

"Come on, Gus, ya know I didn't mean it like that," Johnny protests, shifting just a bit until he is facing me as best he can, in spite of the fact that I refuse to deter my attention from the road, "But it ain't right. What she's done—"

"What she's done is defend herself against a man that probably would've beaten her to death, some day," I cut him off, my voice cracking a bit in mid-sentence, in spite of the fact that I have done everything I can to avoid it, "You weren't there, Johnny. You didn't—you didn't see how he was treating her."

Mercifully, my cousin remains silent after that particular confession, his eyes turning back to the road as I make the turn that will lead towards the church. Truthfully, his skepticism over Ava's intentions is no surprise, regardless of how much I might wish he felt differently. But perhaps what surprises me more is the expression he is giving me now, as though suddenly realizing the exact meaning behind what I have been trying to say all along—

Of course, that would just have to happen at the precise moment that I pull into the drive of the church, effectively halting any and all possible thought of discussing the matter further as soon as I catch sight of my brother Boyd walking down the front steps to meet us. Whether I wanted to be here or not, it seemed that I would have to make due with the circumstances as they presented themselves—

Especially as Ava's life may depend on the end result.

…

"How're you doin', Peanut?" Boyd inquires, obvious concern in his tone, despite the fact that his expression only seems to show a mild curiosity as it pertains to what my answer might contain. In truth, I know full well that the question is a loaded one. How could it not be, with what I witnessed at Ava's the night before? But no matter how I might have wanted to show restraint in my answer—no matter how I knew one single misstep might bode ill for Ava, herself—I am utterly powerless to avoid succumbing to the emotions that have been nagging me for what feels like forever, the breath that escapes in that moment shaky, to say the least, as I shut the door to the refrigerator, and turn to face my brother head-on.

"Honestly?"

"Wouldn't ask ya if I wanted a lie."

"I've seen better days," I admit, finally managing a faint smile in response to the old nickname he gave me when I was still just a little girl, before perching on a rather rickety looking chair nearby so that I can lean forward with both elbows upon my knees, and my head cradled in my hands, "I just—how the hell did everything blow up so quickly?"

"You talkin' bout with Ava? Or somethin' else?"

"All of it, Boyd. I mean, you—you have to see what kind of position this puts me in."

"Did she threaten you?"

"What—no! Of course not!"

"Because if she did, Gus, that ain't somethin' I'm going to take lightly," Boyd informs, the sudden sensation of his finger tucking itself beneath my chin to force me to look him in the eye as he stoops in front of me, his free hand coming to rest upon the arm of the chair I have selected to sit upon, "You're sure she didn't—"

"Ava did not threaten me, Boyd. The answer isn't gonna change no matter how many times I hear the question."

"Well easy, then, I'm just makin' sure," My brother replies, startling me with the barest hints of a laugh, before he is dropping his finger from its place beneath my chin, and moving to stand once again, "You know, sometimes I think you're too much like our daddy for your own good."

"How so?"

"All fire, and brimstone, and righteous anger—"

"Only when it's well-deserved," I begin, managing a faint smile of my own for Boyd's benefit, before wetting my lips with my tongue, and going back to the task of cradling my head in my hands in hopes that it will grant me the courage to ask the question that has been nagging at my mind ever since Bowman died not even twenty-four hours ago, "And speaking of—of well-deserved, what—"

"What am I gonna do about Ava?"

Stymied by the ease with which Boyd seems to have discovered the reason behind my current behavior, I can do no more than remain silent for the moment, my eyes remaining rooted on the floorboards at my feet, while my teeth chew idly at the inside of my cheek. I would be lying if I were to pretend that I was not at least partially terrified to hear his answer, knowing in part that at least some small part of him has to want justice for our brother's death. But what I could never have anticipated in a million years was the absolute honesty in Boyd's voice as he moves across from me to sit on a nearby pew, my gaze lifting to meet his in spite of my hesitation as I recognize that he is trying to put me at ease, in his own convoluted way.

"I'm not gonna do anything other than what the Bible says I need to."

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean, Boyd?"

"Means exactly what it says, Peanut," Boyd states, leaning back against the pew, and spreadin' his arms with an expression crossing his features that seems to suggest I should already know his answer before he gives it, "God intends for a man to take care of his brother's widow, an' I intend to do just that."

"How? How will you take care of her?"

In the wake of my question, Boyd remains eerily silent for a moment, his expression still unreadable, though he must be able to sense my apprehension over that very fact. The realization that I have no way of knowing for sure exactly what he means by such a promise is far more daunting than I might have initially believed, though I do what I can to avoid letting that particular discovery make itself known in my features. But before I can bring myself to abandon my own foolish pride and submit to the desire to practically beg my brother to just tell me whatever it is he intends to do, the sound of the church doors banging open rather effectively divert my thoughts towards snapping my gaze to the newcomer, instead, my eyes widening just a bit as Devil spares a faint nod for my benefit before his is turning his attention to Boyd, instead.

"Who do you know drives a town car?"

"Well I don't know, Devil—why the hell don't we go find out?"

If only I could have known that the new arrival would only serve to make things far more complicated than they already were, perhaps I would've simply stayed put on my chair, instead of getting up to follow after my brother and Devil as they went to take a look at who on earth could be coming up the drive, now…

…..


	4. Reluctant Reunion

(Harlan County, 1988)

"Gus, you came! I thought you were gonna bail on me," My best friend exclaims, dashing over to my side in seconds flat, and pulling me into a tight hug as though she hasn't seen me in years, instead of the mere few hours it's been since we sat together at lunch, "You're sure you ain't gonna get in trouble?"

"Boyd's gonna be here too, in a few minutes. Daddy doesn't mind, so long as I come straight home with him after."

"Think he'll actually stick around? Or will he let us be, an' just tell your daddy we never left his sight?"

"Don't really know," I reply, frowning a bit as the familiar distaste my friend feels for my oldest brother resurfaces, though I don't bother trying to tell her that her emotions, in this case, are unfounded. Of course, I am no stranger to the fact that Boyd seems to have an interest in Ava, but in contrast to some of the other boys our age that have been coming around, he, at least, has not been quite so obvious when it pertains to what he really wants. But that fact notwithstanding, I know that Ava is not about to believe me when I tell her for the millionth time that my brother would never force her into anything she didn't want, and so I opt instead for simply remaining silent on the matter, my eyes casting around the entrance to the school's impromptu attempt at setting up a carnival event in search of the brother in question.

"Well I think your daddy should trust ya some," Ava persists, ignoring my scoff of disbelief that comes almost immediately after her statement in favor of attempting to further defend her apparent case for my emancipation from my father's watchful eye, "You're a good girl. Haven't gotten yourself into any trouble at all."

"Except for gettin' called into the principal's office for super gluin' the band teacher's office door shut—"

"Technically you only got called in on suspicion. Nothin' was ever proved. And besides, ya only did it 'cause he was always leerin' at ya from 'cross the hall."

"Well, regardless of why I did it, I don't really think that's the reason he's convinced Boyd needs to follow me 'round all the time," I begin, tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind an ear, and leaning up on tiptoe to wave my brother over as soon as I catch sight of him a few feet off in the crowd of students already milling our way, "He's just—he's a bit protective, that's all."

"He ever gonna let ya date anyone?"

"Why? You wanna be the first in line?"

The laugh that Ava gives in response to my quip has me smiling in spite of myself, my shoulder bumping gently against her own, while my eyes remain riveted upon Boyd as he continues walking towards us. Almost immediately, I realize that he is smiling right back at me, though it takes only seconds for his gaze to drift to my best friend, where she stands resolutely at my side. And before I know it, I find I am forced to suppress a laugh at that very fact, my teeth chewing idly at my lower lip to help in keeping my amusement at bay while I duck my head down in hopes of corralling my expression into something a bit less suspect.

If Ava gets even one hint of the fact that I find her situation even the slightest bit amusing, I know I will never hear the end of it.

Determined to avoid that possibility as best I can, I allow my attention to drift back to my brother as he closes the distance between us, the ease with which he almost automatically extends an arm to pull me against his side prompting me to relax, even in spite of the fact that his presence is meant to keep me carefully in line. Regardless of my daddy's intentions, though, I know with all my heart that Boyd would never be quite as restrictive as our middle brother Bowman may have, had he been the one chosen for this particular mission. And perhaps it is for that reason alone that I am able to relax against his side, my right arm looping around his waist as he drops a kiss to the top of my head.

"Hey Peanut. Ava."

"Boyd," Ava and I chorus almost in tandem, the effect making my brother laugh, though my smile in response seems a bit more at ease than my friend's. Out of consideration for her apparent unease, I situate myself so that I end up walking between them as we join the throng of students heading towards the carnival. But before we can fully make it inside, the sound of feet pounding against the gravel and a familiar voice calling out my brother's name effectively halt us in our path, Ava's expression turning almost comical as she realizes exactly who wants us to wait for long enough that they can catch up.

"Raylan!" She exclaims, her hand almost automatically lifts to brush at her already perfectly windswept hair, her eyes sparkling at the newcomer as though he is the best thing she's seen all day, "I didn't know you were comin' to this!"

"I didn't know I was, either, til just now," Raylan admits, jogging to a stop beside Ava, and managing a roguish wink, though whether it is for Ava's benefit, or my own, I can't honestly tell, "Guess I didn't wanna sit at home bored out of my mind again."

"Or you didn't wanna listen to your daddy beatin' on your mama again—"

"Wasn't my mama he was beatin' on."

In response to Raylan's honestly surprising remark, I squirm out from beneath Boyd's hold on my shoulders for a moment for no other reason than to step forward so that I can thread my fingers through Raylan's and give them what I hope will pass for an encouraging squeeze. I cannot explain it—my sudden decision to do such a thing, when before I had honestly been too shy and enthralled by my older brother's tall, attractive friend to do much more than say hello, and blush furiously when he smiled back in return. But regardless of whether or not I can understand why I have made such a gesture now, Raylan appears to appreciate it, the return squeeze that he gives my hand before turning his gaze to my brother provoking a flush to burn its way to my cheeks in spite of my desire to stop it.

"Y'all ready to get goin', then?" He inquires, curiously still maintaining his hold upon my hand, though he has to have seen Boyd's skeptically raised brow as he glances at the two of us as though we have both lost our minds, "Daddy says I gotta get this one home by eight."

"Eight?" I protest, already knowing the effort will be futile, though that does not stop me from attempting to pull off a pout, regardless, "What am I, five?"

My remark appears to spark a laugh from Raylan, which admittedly might have been my intent all along, though I do my best to mask my rather obvious smile over my success, even in spite of that very fact. But of course, my brother's answer is every bit as immovable as I might have predicted, the faint smile he gives me by way of apology still not downplaying the slight twinge of regret I feel as soon as I hear his reply.

"Sorry, Peanut. You know Daddy's word is law."

Nodding my agreement, though I do at least make a show of rolling my eyes, I find that Raylan is relinquishing my hand far too soon for my liking, thus leaving me free to be tugged back against Boyd's side while Ava eagerly takes my place at Raylan's side, instead. In seconds, I am glancing up at my brother, trying to take in his reaction to my best friend's rather obvious flirting with his—and although I can tell that he is troubled by it, despite the fact that his expression is relatively unchanged, I do not react in any other way aside from leaning against him and reattaching my arm to its former place around his waist, the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth as he glances down at me proving that my intuition was correct, and that he just might appreciate my efforts at showing solidarity even though he hasn't said a word.

Whether I sometimes chafe under the weight of his steadfast protectiveness or not, I would be a liar if I tried to pretend that Boyd and I were, more often than not, the metaphorical anchor in the storm for each other no matter what mess our daddy's lifestyle chose to throw our way.

…

The memory comes, unbidden, as soon as I see exactly who it is that is stepping out of the town car, my mouth going dry as my eyes almost instantly drop to the ground. Suddenly, I am near to panicking, my heart thumping erratically against my ribcage while my teeth begin the task of chewing at my lower lip. But before I can fully decide whether I should give into the childish desire to simply turn tail and run, or stand firm and act as though I hardly give a damn, I find that Devil is standing beside me to nudge at my arm, his expression quizzical, to say the least as I finally meet his gaze, and he breaks my enforced silence with a sudden, and yet not altogether unexpected inquiry.

"You good?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

"How many times you gonna need to tell yourself that 'til you believe it?"

"Probably at least a hundred," I confess, bumping my shoulder against him in direct repetition of what he did just seconds before, and watching as Boyd moves down the church steps to pull the new arrival into a surprisingly friendly embrace, "Maybe two hundred, if I'm bein' honest."

"Any idea why the hell he's even here?"

"Not a clue."

"Well I got your back, no matter what," Devil declares, leveling a hard glare towards the newcomer as he heads back towards the church steps side by side with Boyd, and stepping just a fraction of an inch forward almost as though he wants to shield me from view entirely. A sigh escapes me in response to the act, just as I come to the simultaneous realization that Boyd is addressing him, and gesturing to his newfound companion as he speaks.

"See, this is how you wear a hat. Casual. Not down on your god damn ears," My brother says, clearly either not entirely aware of the way that Devil's posture seems to tense in response to his remark, or simply not caring at all as he turns back towards Raylan to go on, "Heard you called on Ava. My boy, Dewey, said he ran you off."

"You believe that?"

"Not if you say it ain't so."

"Well, I do," Raylan says, coming to a stop beside Boyd at the foot of the staircase, and finally—finally—looking up as though he has only just realized the two of them are not alone, "If anyone's gonna run me off, it won't be Dewey Crowe."

Unable to resist the urge to scoff, despite the fact that I really do not feel like drawing more of Raylan's attention to myself than has already been given, my hand almost automatically flies up to cover my mouth while my cheeks begin to burn in belated embarrassment over the slip. Almost immediately, I am aware of Raylan's gaze on me, familiar brown eyes holding my own no matter how fiercely I wish I could simply look away. As though from a distance, I can feel Devil stepping closer to me, as though I really do need some form of protection from this man that I never thought I would see again in my lifetime. But before I can manage any sort of reply at all, either to his presence at my side, or Raylan's arrival in and of itself, I find the gesture rendered entirely unnecessary, Raylan's voice suddenly seeming softer as he still holds my gaze with his own, a tentative grin tugging at one corner of his mouth before he speaks.

"You've grown, Gus—"

"That tends to happen when you go away for years," I retort, secretly pleased that I have somehow still maintained the capability of speaking at all, given that just looking at him again after all this time has my stomach twisting and turning in on itself in knots. Vaguely, I become aware of the fact that Boyd keeps flitting his eyes from me, to Raylan, and back to me again, as though waiting on the edge of some chasm for one or the other of us to simply topple over the edge. In spite of apparent expectations, though, neither of us do, a small furrow forming at the center of Raylan's brow for a moment before he replies to my acerbic comment as though it is the most natural thing in the world.

"Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Of course it did. And now?"

"I didn't ask to come back here, Gus—" Raylan interjects, something in his expression almost pleading, as though he is seeking some sort of absolution for the past only making it that much more difficult for me to believe he could possibly be sincere—something that clearly has more impact on my ensuing reply than I might have initially believed.

"Well then you shouldn't have any trouble leavin' again."

In response to those words, Raylan's expression clouds over, his attention finally moving away from me as we both come to the simultaneous realization that Devil is stepping still closer towards him, his expression giving absolutely no room for doubt as to how he felt about our interaction.

"I can take care of him," He says, a disdainful glance at Raylan declaring his meaning in no uncertain terms, before he is turning his attention back to Boyd, all but certain he will be granted permission to do what he sees fit. In seconds, I find that instinct prompts me to step forward, my mixed feelings over Raylan's arrival for the moment cast to the wayside as doing what I can to diffuse the situation rises to the forefront of my mind. But before I can do anything more than manage a brief shake of the head at Boyd, as though silently begging him to be lenient, my brother decides to enter the conversation, himself, his expression unreadable as he looks Devil in the eye and counters the man's suggestion with one of his own.

"Go get a jar, an' some glasses. Just two—this is me an' Raylan's party."

"Guess that's my cue to get back to Ava's," I presume, directing a look at my brother that all but dares him to disagree, "I'll just take the groceries, an' get out of the way of your little reunion."

Before either Raylan or my brother can manage a word, I turn on a heel and head back into the church, my steps perhaps quicker than they need to be as I make my way to the fridge, and tug open the door so abruptly the beer bottles lined up on the shelf give off a little tinkle in response. I have the groceries out, and in my arms in next to no time at all, though that temporary distraction still is not entirely enough to give my nerves the steel that they will require to walk past Raylan and head towards the truck parked in the yard. But regardless of my lingering apprehension, I force myself to do exactly that, my attention zeroing in on Ava's truck as though if I stare at it intently enough, Raylan will simply cease to exist.

Of course, real life is nowhere near as simplistic as all of that, the mere presence of my brother's former friend still standing outside the church drawing my eyes as though there is some sort of stupid magnet stuck between us. For a moment, I am almost tempted to summon up another scathing retort, if for no other reason than to satisfy some sort of childish need to make him as uncomfortable as I happen to be in this moment. So naturally, I am not really all that surprised when Raylan beats me to the punch, one brow quirked in obvious skepticism over my intentions as he glances at the grocery bags in my arms before he speaks.

"You're actually going over there."

"I am. That a problem?"

"Given current events, it might be, yeah."

"Right, because I'm really going over there to take her out for what she did to my brother," I quip, rolling my eyes, and pushing past Raylan with just enough proximity to bump against his side in the process, "God, you are unbelievable."

"Easy, killer—tell Ava I said hello," Boyd intervenes, the last half of his statement causing me to whip around in hopes of gathering the meaning behind it in whatever expression rests upon his features. Of course, I can discern nothing, though my brother does at least manage a faint smile for my benefit just as Devil returns with the aforementioned glasses, and bottle of shine. And in spite of the fact that a part of me really wants to press the matter of what he means by all of this—of what the hell Raylan Givens is doing back in Harlan—I force myself to continue moving towards the truck, the grocery bags rustling along at my side in the light breeze blowing in from the east.

If I know anything at all, it is that the quicker I get back to Ava's the better, if for no other reason than to attempt to stifle my anxiety with the liquor I know will be coming hand in hand with the preparation of the fried chicken she intends to make for dinner.

…

"Baby, you're back!" Ava enthuses, a goofy grin in place upon her lips as she holds open the kitchen door so that I can sidle through with grocery bags in tow, "I was startin' to worry about you—"

"I had to make a pit-stop at Boyd's," I confess, setting the bags on the kitchen counter, and shaking a few loose strands of hair out of my eyes as I wait for the inevitability of Ava's ensuing expression of surprise, "Apparently he's havin' people follow us."

"Are you okay?"

"It was just Johnny—"

"Did anyone follow you back here?"

"I don't think so."

"Jesus Christ," Ava exhales, a tinge of apprehension finally—finally—seeping into her tone as she brushes past me and peers out the front door as though expecting someone to come ambling up the drive any second, "Boyd's idea, I take it—"

"Probably," I confirm, settling myself to the task of unpacking the groceries I picked up at the store, while Ava pads back into the kitchen and almost immediately heads towards the cabinet she keeps the liquor in, as I honestly knew she would, "But he didn't seem to mind me comin' back to drop off your food."

"You're not stayin'?"

"I am if you want me to."

"Of course I want ya to, Gus."

"Then I guess I'm stayin'."

Seemingly satisfied by my response, Ava immediately abandons her temporary jaunt to the liquor cabinet, and moves to help me take the rest of the groceries out of their bags, and put the items in their correct place, an easy silence taking root between us while we work. That silence persists for long enough that we finish with the groceries, and Ava returns to grab two glasses and a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet she had been standing before just moments ago. I watch her while she pours the liquid into the glasses, before turning back towards the fridge to grab some ice cubes from their tray in the freezer. And just when I can stand it no longer, I find myself somehow summoning the courage to say what has been troubling me ever since hearing Raylan Givens say it out loud, my brow furrowing just a bit as I gratefully accept the glass Ava hands me, and force myself to talk before I lose my nerve entirely.

"Heard Raylan stopped by while I was gone. Dewey too."

"You—you did?"

"Thought you were gonna call if anything like that happened," I press, pausing for just long enough to take a deep swig of the drink Ava hands me, and in hopes that it will give her long enough to reply—which, naturally, it does.

"I was, Gus, I swear. But Raylan showin' up—it—it threw me for a loop, an' then Dewey only came here when I was in the shower."

"You were in the shower when Raylan was here?"

"Only for part of the time," Ava clarifies, setting her glass on the counter, and toying with the rim as though if she actually looks me in the eye, she might implode, "We were talkin' about what—what happened with Bowman."

"You told him about that?"

"He said he was here for the Marshals. That's the only reason I told him anything, I swear."

"So when he showed up at Boyd's he was lookin' for more information," I surmise, downing the rest of my drink in one gulp, and wincing a bit as the liquid burns down my throat in response, "Did you—did you tell him that you thought Boyd was gonna come after you?"

"He came up with that one on his own," Ava assures me, taking another sip of her own beverage, before looking directly at me, with sincerity shining in her eyes, "I swear, Gus, I wouldn't do that. Not unless I thought I had a good reason to."

"And what would that 'good reason' be, Ava? When he shows up on your doorstep himself?"

"Only reason he's gonna be doin' that is to—you know—get into bed with me," My friend declares, her lips twitching into a smile in response to the snort of amusement that escapes me before I have the chance to stop it. In truth, her reply does set me at ease, at least to a degree, even in spite of the nervousness that has once again turned up to plague me over the precariousness of the situation I have found myself in. I can't help but wonder if she's honestly known the entire time that my brother seems to be carrying a torch for her, though I do not entirely possess the mental fortitude to ask about it at this particular moment. But regardless of whether she is aware of Boyd's feelings for her or not, I cannot help but notice that Ava's attempts at humor are likely her means of providing an apology as well—and that is perhaps a great part of the reason behind why I opt for teasing her in return, my smile hopefully genuine enough to waylay any suspicion on her part as I reply.

"You know, Ava, maybe you need to wrap your head around the fact that not every guy in Harlan County actually wants to sleep with you."

"Well sure they don't, Gus. The ones that don't wanna sleep with me wanna sleep with you."

Unable to do anything but laugh in response to her assertion, I step around the counter to pull Ava into a one-armed embrace, her own laughter echoing in my ears until we pull away and she grabs my glass from my hand to get us both a refill. Of course, I am not so foolish to believe that this will be the last time the two of us are almost at odds, though I do seem to be naïve enough to hope that we will be capable of maneuvering past it as easily as we have just now. But whether or not that hope ever sees the light of day, I find that I am rather happily ignoring my apprehension in favor of accepting another drink from Ava's hand, and following after her as she sets about preparing the chicken to fry for our dinner without another word.

For now, at least, we can simply focus on the task of being two friends, up to nothing more daunting than settling in for an evening of cooking, and idle conversation.

…


	5. Precipice

By the time Ava and I succeed in getting dinner ready for the table, I find that I am well and truly drunk, my laughter coming far easier than it has in what feels like ages as I follow after my best friend with a bowl of mashed potatoes in hand. We'd spent the majority of the time preparing the meal talking about anything and everything, though through some manner of silent agreement neither one of us mentioned word one about my family, good things or otherwise. And so, I find I have a genuine reason to feel surprise as I maneuver around Ava to place the potatoes near the head of the table, and she leans against the back of one of the chairs placed around it before asking me the one question I never wanted to hear.

"So—how was it for you? Seein' Raylan, I mean?"

"It was what it was. Probably not as fun as your time with him, though," I quip, hoping that my remark will get Ava talking about her interactions with the man, instead of my own, and finding with some regret that the effort is wasted as she narrows her eyes at me, and shakes her head while a half-smile tugs at one corner of her mouth, "What?"

"Don't you 'what' me, Augusta Diane Crowder. I'm not givin' up 'til you give me a straight answer, so don't even try."

"Remind me why I'm friends with you again?"

"Because you love me."

"Sometimes I wonder," I tease, able to manage a small smile despite the renewed twisting in my gut at the mere thought of discussing Raylan Givens at all, "And to answer your question honestly, it was—awkward. Awkward as hell."

"Why?"

"Why do you think? When he left, we weren't exactly seein' eye to eye."

"Well, maybe the two of you can fix that, now that he's back," Ava suggests, her tone very clearly indicating a desire to be helpful, though the end result is anything but, "It's not like it's never happened before."

"I really don't think it's gonna happen this time," I reply, keeping my eyes fixed on the potatoes I have just placed on the table for a moment, before shaking myself, and beginning the trek back to the kitchen for the platter of chicken, "Don't push it on me, Ava. Please."

"Alright, I won't. But I think you're both bein' silly if you carry on like you never meant anything to each other, and I won't stop sayin' that no matter how mad you get."

"I'm not mad."

"Not yet," Ava admits, following after me as I head into the kitchen, and scooting ahead of me at the last moment to grab the platter of chicken herself, "Let me get that. Pour yourself another drink."

"Are you tryin' to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?" I inquire, taking some comfort in Ava's almost immediate burst of laughter in response to my remark, and sending her a genuine smile as she swats at my shoulder before grabbing the chicken and turning to head back to the dining room while she replies.

"Hell, Gus, you're already drunk. Seems to me it's only right to keep you that way if it'll get you to relax."

Whether I wanted to admit that she was right or not, something told me that I needed this—a night to give in to temptation, and ignore reality, even if it was only for a little while.

After all, I the consequences of that decision would be there to greet me in the morning, either way.

…

The following morning, or technically, early afternoon, if I'm being honest, I wake to find myself curled up on my daddy's old sofa, still in my clothes from dinner at Ava's the night before. Truthfully, I cannot recall exactly how I got home, though once I summon the wherewithal to lift myself from my position enough to peek out of the window and note that my car is in the driveway, and still in one piece, to boot, I am forced to surmise that nothing too traumatic occurred during the journey. Relief floods through me at the thought, before the stabbing pain reverberating between my temples forces me to lie down once again. And although I know I was fully aware of the decision I was making when I decided to allow Ava the chance to cook up some of the affectionately nicknamed 'swamp water' that was our specialty when we were just teens, I still cannot help but curse the after-effects, regardless, a low groan wringing its way from my throat as I squeeze my eyes shut and try to focus on the effort of getting the room to stop spinning so I don't get sick.

I remain that way for quite some time, fading in and out of an uneasy sleep that I am abundantly grateful no one is around to witness. Since my daddy's incarceration, I've been able to amble around his home on my own, for the most part, save for the few visits from Bowman or Boyd that are few and far between. My eyes open once again in response to the thought of either one of my brothers, one of whom is now gone for good. And, before I can fully stop it, I am suddenly fighting against the sting of unshed tears, my teeth grinding together as I do what I can to ignore the pain throbbing in my head so that I can push myself to a seated position, and swing my legs over the edge of the couch to rest flat upon the floor.

One of my brothers is dead, and even the fact that he was by no means my favorite does not seem to be enough to stop the guilt from clawing its way through my chest, regardless, now that I am completely alone, and vulnerable enough to process it in its entirety.

I can remember the days when Bowman wasn't so terrifying—not really, though I always knew to give him a wide berth on certain occasions, when the football team had suffered a defeat, or some girl he had been seeing told him her daddy didn't want her associating with someone like him anymore. I can remember a time when he'd sit at my side while I suffered through the very same homework assignments he had, years before, when he had decided to give them the time of day, that was. And somehow, the memory of that person only seemed to make his absence that much more painful, even in spite of the reality that I know very well what he became, in later years, the frown that tugs at my lips only growing as I duck my head until it rests in both hands, and force another breath from my lungs in a wayward attempt to settle my wayward emotions.

I still do not blame Ava for Bowman's death, of course. I can't when I saw what he did to her. When I was right by her side after she lost the baby, and when I know full-well that I, too, would have suffered at his hands, if Boyd hadn't been such a driving force against it. In truth, even with my grief such as it was, I had to admit to some degree of pride over her finally deciding she had had enough. She was no damsel, in need of a man to save her time and time again, and that had been a great part of the reason why we had become friends to begin with.

Still, I cannot help but wonder if she might have found an alternative to what she had done. Something that could have enabled her to be free of him, but in a less permanent way. Of course, I know I am a fool for hoping for such a thing, particularly as a part of me already suspects if Ava ever tried to leave Bowman while he was alive, then she would be the one going in the ground. But even with that awareness I am entirely incapable of allowing myself the momentary dream of such an outcome, regardless, another groan escaping as I lift my head from my hands and steel myself for the act of standing upright.

As I might have predicted, the room spins around me, at first, forcing me to fling a hand out to land on the back of the nearby rocking chair so I do not fall flat on my face. For another moment or two, I simply remain where I am, silently willing myself to keep my roiling stomach in line. But, as soon as I am reasonably certain I can move a few inches at a time without either losing consciousness, or emptying the meager contents of my stomach onto the floorboards at my feet, I force myself to head towards the stairs, and consequently the shower I will find waiting at the top, my hands gripping onto every surface they can find along the way to keep me steady.

God help me, I am never drinking as much as I did last night ever again…

Steeled by such a notion, both as a result of its ability to assuage my pounding head that I will never be in such dire straits as this, and because I can simultaneously rest assured that the accompanying vulnerability that follows my overindulgence in liquor will never be quite as potent as it is right now. Even as a young girl, I had hated the thought of anyone but Ava or Boyd seeing me like this—fragile, and in need of reassurance, rather than aloof and confident as I tried to be so often in public. And something about allowing either one of them to see me in such a state now, after losing Bowman, and the subsequent upheaval it has cast upon our little family all but convinces me to never allow myself to be that vulnerable again.

Making my way up the stairs bit by bit, I find myself rather surprised to realize that the act of simply focusing on something else aside from the goings on of the last few days seems to help, to a degree, though perhaps that is simply the prospect of a decent bath. And although I can still feel a small part of my mind almost itching to travel back to a closer inspection of my feelings over Bowman's death, I force myself to ignore that in favor of clearing the landing at the head of the stairs, relief practically causing my body to sag as I stumble into the bathroom and stoop to turn on the faucet that will fill the bathtub with the warm water I crave so fiercely it almost hurts.

Whether I have any reason to believe this will be the case or not, I persist in the stubborn thought that if I can simply relax for a few moments while the hot water leaches all of the discomfort and anxiousness from my body, everything will seem much more manageable than it does right now.

It has to be more manageable, because I am not too sure I will survive if it's not…

…

(Harlan County, 1988)

"Your mama okay?" I whisper, leaning against Raylan's side, and ignoring the shiver that the contact almost immediately provokes in every muscle I possess, in the process. Though I think it's safe to say neither of us really planned it, we have both somehow managed to fall behind Boyd and Ava in the act of walking over to the tent where cotton candy, popcorn, and various other treats are on sale. And in spite of the fact that I can practically feel the weight of Ava's half-hearted glare she gives from over her shoulder before turning her attention back to whatever it is Boyd is telling her at the moment, I cannot entirely bring myself to regret the opportunity to talk with Raylan on my own, my brown eyes turning up to meet his own as he manages a slight shrug before he replies.

"She will be. Wasn't too bad this time."

"And are you okay?"

The response to that inquiry was a little bit longer in coming, the sudden shadow that passed over Raylan's features almost making me regret even asking the question at all. I know why he doesn't want to talk about it, of course, just as I know that the only reason he hasn't already propelled us onto an entirely different topic of conversation is because I am asking him with relative certainty that his reply will never be overheard, given the commotion going on around us. But before I can make any attempt at backtracking, to salvage Raylan's mood, if nothing else, I find the effort rendered useless, the slight pressure of his hand upon my shoulder bringing my progress towards the tent we were heading towards to a stop, and forcing me to look him in the eye once again.

"I will be."

"Raylan, you know if you ever need a place to stay—"

"I can come and stay with you? Come on, Gus, we both know your daddy is never gonna let that happen," Raylan interrupts, the bitterness in his tone causing me to flinch even though I know what he says is true, "I can take care of myself you know."

"You shouldn't have to."

"But I can," He insists, his expression seeming to indicate that he needs me to believe him, even though he has to know I already do without any attempt at persuasion on his part at all, "He's just a man. A man with a temper, and a penchant for drinkin' too much."

"A man who should know better than to beat on his son and his wife," I hiss, surprising both myself and Raylan with the sudden vehemence in my tone, though my companion at least possesses the wherewithal to give me a devastatingly charming grin in response to my abrupt defense of his person, "What? What are you smiling at?"

"You, Gus. Only you. Ya know, I really don't know what I'd do without you?"

"Wasn't aware I was doin' anything worth smiling for," I protest, doing my level best to ignore the flush that burns across my cheeks as I realize Raylan has looped an arm around my shoulders to pull me flush against his side, "I'm bein' serious, Raylan."

"So am I. I wouldn't know what to do without you," He admits, startling me with the sudden honesty in his words, where before, getting him to speak openly was like pulling teeth without anesthesia, "Don't tell Boyd I said that, though."

"Why? Scared he'll kick your ass again?"

"Something like that," Raylan admits, a laugh escaping his lips so suddenly that I can feel its reverberations through our side to side contact before he has a chance to rein it in, "He really still tells everybody he was the one that won that fight?"

"Did you really think that he wouldn't?"

"No. No, Gus, I guess I really didn't."

"Good. Because you know if you did, that'd mean I'd have to question your sanity," I remark, allowing a faint grin to toy at the edges of my mouth before glancing up at him once again, and effecting a look of feigned innocence, "More than I do already, I mean."

In lieu of a reply, I find myself suddenly emitting a startled shriek as Raylan drops his arm from its place around my shoulders, and chooses to stoop so that he can throw me over his shoulder, instead in mere seconds flat. Before I can stop him, he starts jogging away from the tent my brother and Ava are still headed towards, ignoring my continued yelps of protest as though he has suddenly gone deaf. I can feel his laughter, still, its after effects causing his shoulders to shake as he carries me around a worn footpath that leads towards the ferris wheel, and then suddenly makes a sharp right towards the dunk tank, instead. Since the carnival has just begun, no one is inside, yet, ready and waiting for some hyped-up teen to attempt hitting the tiny target that will flip the lever, and submerge them in the water waiting below their seat. And as soon as I realize this, I find that my eyes are widening in a combination of abject intrigue and simultaneous trepidation, my right hand fisting in the back of Raylan's shirt while I use the left to beat ineffectually against his broad shoulders.

"Raylan—Raylan Givens, don't you dare!"

"You were the one that suggested I wasn't sane, Gus—"

"I was—I was kidding!"

"Now tell me why I don't believe you," Raylan says, laughing as my struggles against his hold on my body only increase, though I know on some level that given his significant advantage in height and build, they are all but futile, and I don't really stand a chance, "You've got five seconds, Gus."

"Raylan!"

"Four—three—"

"Raylan, I'm serious! I was kidding—"

"Two—one—"

"Boyd is gonna kill you!" I exclaim in a last-ditch effort to provoke my would-be captor into stopping, my lips curving in a smile at this game that has sprung up between us even in spite of the fact that I know I am about to be dunked into a tank of ice-cold water in mere moments. Of course, my words mean nothing to Raylan. Not now, when the prospect of tumbling me into the tank is so clearly more amusing than any possibility of vengeance my brother may enact. But regardless of whether he will listen or not I still enact one final, feeble plea, my hold tightening on the fabric of his shirt as we near the dunk tank, and I attempt to turn my tone of voice into something more persuasive than any of my previous shouts could hope to be.

"Raylan, please—"

"Tell me why I don't believe you," He repeats, the slight catch in his voice betraying the fact that he is out of breath, despite being a decent athlete all on his own, "Tell me and I might let you down."

"You don't believe me—because—"

"Because?"

"Because you doubt your own sanity, too," I finish, knowing full well that my response will only give him motive to follow through on his decided course, and finding myself abundantly grateful that he is still holding me over his shoulder so that he cannot see my broad, if a little mischievous, grin, at all. A part of me knows this is insane—knows that my efforts to prolong our time alone together might not work exactly as I had planned, particularly if he does what Bowman might've done, were he here, and leaves as soon as I am fully submerged in the dunk tank, and out of his arms for good. But regardless of those doubts, I find that I still cling to the thought that maybe—just maybe—Raylan won't act that way at all, a shriek and a laugh mingling upon my lips as I register the shift in equilibrium that comes about as Raylan tips me over the edge of the tank, and I am tumbling into the water without a moment to spare.

"Not good enough, Gus—"

Even half muffled by the water that rushes into my ears until I manage to push my way back to the surface, I would have been a fool to pretend I could not hear the laughter in Raylan's words, despite the implications of his action, my heart lifting just a bit as I realize that perhaps I have managed to salvage his mood after all…

…

After my bath, and a few more hours spent puttering around Daddy's house cleaning up, I find that the symptoms of my unfortunate hangover have abated enough for me to be a more productive member of society, one hand lifting to shade my eyes from the rays of the setting sun as I step out onto the front porch, and shut the door behind me. In spite of my earlier reclusiveness, I am suddenly all but determined to spend at least some of this day in the company of something aside from my own rather obnoxious internal musings. And so, I take the steps leading down to the gravel drive as quickly as I can so that I might head towards the truck, in spite of the fact that I have not, as yet, fully decided where to go.

Walking over to the truck, my hand soon glides out to rest upon the handle of the driver's side door, so that I can haul myself into the seat, and shut the door behind me not long thereafter. Whether it is brought on by Bowman's death, Raylan's arrival, or something else entirely, I find myself rather suddenly possessed with a desire to visit Helen Givens. And, before I can discover some way to talk myself out of it, I twist the key in the ignition and listen as the truck's engine roars to life, my foot shifting on the brake while I throw the vehicle into drive, and head off towards the dirt road at the end of the gravel driveway. As yet another attempt at ensuring my mind is suitably distracted so that I cannot possibly chicken out at the last minute, I reach my right hand over to the dial that will switch on the radio, secretly pleased that I have the car to myself for long enough of a journey that I can listen to whatever I would like. But before I can succeed in doing so, I find myself distracted by the shrill beep of my cell phone from where it rests in my back pocket, my body shifting just a bit so that I can withdraw the device and bring it to my ear as soon as I recognize Ava's name flashing across the screen.

"Ava—what is it?" I begin, only to find myself cut off in mid inquiry as my best friend's voice reaches my ears, strangled, and paralyzed with what I can only describe as fear. Fear and a surprisingly gut-wrenching sound that seems remarkably similar to a ragged sob.

"You—you gotta get over here right away, Gus. Boyd's—Boyd's just been shot."

Jesus Christ, not again…

…


End file.
